


sugar

by kaijusnowglobe



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2020 US Presidential Election, Established Relationship, M/M, Nationverse, PWP, USUKUS, al is STRESSED, another chapter to come, no beta we die like men, sloppy toppy, title inspired by BROCKHAMPTON
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27072646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusnowglobe/pseuds/kaijusnowglobe
Summary: Alfred can't stop thinking about the upcoming election. Arthur wants to help.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 60





	1. spendin all my nights alone

**Author's Note:**

> don't ask americans about the election okay we're all fucking dying over here and yes america's a liberal it's simply not up for debate (register to vote and if you've already registered, VOTE!!!! if you're interested in volunteering to textbank for key swing states like i am, feel free to comment/let me know! my hetatwt is @eggbitxh)

Alfred had called Arthur in the middle of the night (well, Arthur’s morning) with a request. In his defense, it was—somewhat—urgent.

He always got like this around elections. Antsy. Anxious. Hyper-focused, alert, but he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Insomnia in full force. Either not eating, or eating too much (and lately, he had been living off of iced coffees, one meal a day, and cigarettes, so yeah, maybe the former.) Irritated. Jumpy. Generally feeling—well—to put it lightly, terrible. It was around this time, the last three month stretch before his sacred Election Day every four years, that a White House physician would prescribe him a heavy sleep aid and send him on his way. This year, though, this _fucking year,_ he couldn't take it anymore. And he had been holding it back for awhile.

Alfred knew he had to take a break when he snapped at an intern who had brought him an iced caramel latte with _almond_ milk instead of _oat_ milk ( _"I'm not some idiot who doesn't know his fucking milks! I can tell the difference!"_ ) Who even was he anymore? Three hundred and some change years ago, he had been squatting in his own shit in Massachusetts woods fighting redcoats with nothing but his bare hands, a bowie knife, and the filthy indigo-blue uniform on his back. Now, he couldn’t stand the thought of _one more thing_ going wrong, being in the same room with _him,_ his worst, orange nightmare threatening the very essence of who Alfred _was, his democracy,_ for another second. Alfred started having stomach aches, deep, deep pain in his gut whenever he had been called to the Oval Office nowadays. He figured if he was actually human, he would have had about three heart attacks by now. 

So when he had—perhaps, maybe, just a little?—raised his voice at the college student who had brought the drink to his office (which had gotten _smaller_ every year during this administration), Alfred knew immediately that maybe, _just maybe_ , he needed to take an eensy-weensy little business trip somewhere else entirely. The poor intern just stared back at him with a hurt look before scurrying away, wiping at her eyes. On his last day before he decided to make his surprise escape, Alfred made sure to pass on an apology note urging the intern to write him if she _ever_ needed a reference and a cheap _Whole Foods_ bouquet of flowers to her supervisor.

On the night Alfred made his call, he sat up in bed. He switched his lamp on, the cold sweat erupting across his face more apparent. He shivered. Picked up his phone. A moment went by, one, two—the _Peloton_ bike Alfred had impulse-bought months prior, now dusty, stared at him from the corner of his room. Yeah, that was a bust. Alfred sat, finger twisting the silver band on his ring finger; Arthur had one too, matching, of course. Alfred wondered if Arthur ever played with his ring when he was on the phone, too.   
  
Arthur’s voice chirped on the other line. “Hey,” Alfred thought he could hear some chatter on Arthur’s end, then quiet. He must have gone somewhere private to talk. “It’s the middle of the night, love, what’re you doing up?”

Alfred sighed, shakier than he would have preferred. “Can’t sleep.” He said, gruff.

“I could have guessed that.”

Alfred hesitated. Arthur, somehow, from across the ocean, sensed it. “What do you need?” Arthur asked.

“Can I come over?” Alfred finally muttered, his voice small. He thought he could hear Arthur’s soft chuckle, warm, inviting, on the other line. God, he missed it. Alfred could imagine him perfectly: tucked away in some corner, looking down at the floor as he smiled away, the way his eyes crinkled around the corners and the way Arthur’s freckles moved when he smiled, too. Alfred couldn’t stand to be further away from him in this moment. 

“I was waiting for you to ask." 


	2. tell me what i'm waitin for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy :-)

A week passed since Alfred had flown in. The spur-of-the-moment decision hadn’t left Arthur with much wiggle room when it came to his own duties, and most days and nights, Alfred was left to his own devices.

In the dark of Arthur’s home office, a single lamp in the corner, Alfred sat, laptop set up as he pored over all the _where the fuck r u?_ and _did you see the new press memo?_ emails. The answers? Definitive _no_ and _absolutely not, Ivanka_. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he switched over to a livestream of the news and set to another project to get his mind off of work: more work. A pad of paper and a pen at the ready, he set off, scribbling furiously. He mumbled under his breath, something about “fucking Florida, fucking Texas, thirty-eight votes…” He scratched out something, wrote something else down in his famed chicken scratch. His head down, he huffed, unconsciously rubbing at his forehead.

“Drink?”

Alfred jumped, shocked from his workflow haze. “Jesus,” he exhaled. He hadn’t even noticed the man come in. Arthur stood next to him, looking over his shoulder at the mess Alfred had drawn all over the paper as he set a whiskey, no ice, down on a coaster. (Just how Alfred liked it. Arthur would never let it be known, but he did, in fact, enjoy doing little favors, giving little gifts, being sweet like this on occasion.)

Arthur furrowed his brows, lips parting in focus as he tried to read Alfred’s handwriting. “The fucking electoral college,” The American clarified, to which Arthur nodded quietly, with a soft acknowledgement.

“…so, you’re working.” Arthur said, sipping his own glass of whiskey. “When you came here to not do that. Is that it?” He smirked, eyes narrowed during his mock interrogation. Alfred closed his laptop with a sheepish smile, tired eyes looking up at the other. The warm light of the lamp seemed to hit the elder nation just right, green eyes playing in the light, and Alfred smiled.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Arthur teased, leaning against the desk with a smirk. Alfred couldn’t stand how right he was, and yet, he could.

“It’s just, I don’t know, it feels like…” Alfred shook his head picked up his glass, and brought it to his lips. When he moved to put the glass back down, he felt the soft pressure of Arthur moving the glass back to his lips with a gentle “relax, love” and Alfred finished the glass off, and swallowed, feeling the twisting, delicious burn of bourbon in his throat. And somehow, like that, Arthur was topping off his glass again with _way too much_ whiskey. Alfred blinked, shifting in his (technically, Arthur’s) desk chair. Arthur smiled down at him, much too innocent for whatever he was on to. As he slugged the next glass of whiskey back and looked back to Arthur, Alfred knew the look in his eyes well; Arthur wore it whenever Alfred had to wear a well-tailored suit, whenever Alfred got a fresh haircut that suited him well, whenever he wanted Alfred to push him against the nearest wall and fuck him senseless until he was crying from the pain and pleasure of the dick inside of him.

A drop of whiskey had made its way down Alfred’s chin, and Arthur took that as an invitation to rub it away with the pad of his thumb. In the next moment, Arthur had stepped forward and leaned down to steal a kiss from the other. Alfred deepened the kiss, one of his hands moving to slide into Arthur’s pants, and push them down a bit to grasp onto one of those bony hips. He heard something that maybe resembled a moan, or a whisper, from Arthur. Closing his eyes, he felt Arthur come closer, feeling the heat of his breath against his neck, and a wetness. Arthur was kissing his neck, languidly, just the way he knew it would put Alfred on edge. Alfred’s hands moved to brush against his ribs, holding him there.

“God, I love your fucking mouth,” Alfred breathed, and he meant it—especially when Arthur laved his tongue against his clavicle like that, pulling his white tee down with a couple fingers.

Arthur moved from his place against Alfred’s chest to press his lips against Alfred’s again.

They dipped their tongues together, and Arthur held the back of Alfred’s head, grounding him. He pulled away, silent save for a look that seemed to say it all as Arthur’s fingers played with the downy hair at the nape of his neck.

_Let me take care of you._

Alfred nodded, savoring the feeling of the feather light touches at the nape of his neck. Arthur ran a hand through his hair, from the front, all the way back to the nape of his neck again, and it sent chills—literally goosebumps—through Alfred. He shifted in his seat again. Arthur knew it was one of Alfred’s favorite feelings in the world—his hair being played with.

“Yes?”

“Yes, please,” Alfred muttered, breathless. “Please, baby.”

Alfred was met with a smirk before Arthur got down on his knees against the hardwood floor of the office. “Do you need my sweatsh—“ He started. “Hush.” Arthur waved him off, a warmth in his voice. Arthur made quick work of Alfred’s jeans and underwear, pulling them to his thighs and complaining quietly about how tight Alfred liked to wear his jeans. In the lamplight, Alfred watched Arthur’s lips close around the head of his cock with wide eyes. A groan, louder than he had intended, escaped from his throat as the other pressed forward, and Alfred felt the tip graze the back of Arthur’s throat. “Holy shit,” he moaned, and reached forward to grip the hair on the back of the Brit’s head, pulling him closer. Arthur deep throated him again, and Alfred bucked his hips, letting his head fall back.

“Fuck—oh, _fuck_ ,” Alfred whimpered, fingers wrapped in Arthur’s thick hair. The man’s tongue pressed against the underside of his cock, twisting against him; Alfred’s hips jolted in response. Arthur opened his eyes to look up at Alfred from his place at his cock, and Alfred gasped. Arthur had slipped his hand under his tee, and tugged at his nipple, earning another loud groan from the younger nation. Arthur’s other hand gripped the meat of Alfred’s leg, fingernails digging into Alfred’s thigh. He pulled himself back to the tip of Alfred’s cock, humming.

“Please, please don’t stop, I’m about to—” Alfred found himself begging. It was all he could think about—Arthur’s perfect lips around him, cheeks hollowed and flushed, eyes half-lidded, wet dream fuel. Arthur pulled himself off Alfred’s cock completely, licking his swollen lips.

“No more work while you’re here,” He told him, “promise me.”

Alfred could barely think, panting as he looked down at Arthur between his legs, his dick still rock-hard. “Huh?” He said. Arthur pinched the American’s nipple, to which Alfred gasped, the arousal clear on his face. “Ah— _England_ , please,” he whined. One of Arthur’s hands wrapped around the base of the younger man’s cock. “Promise me, America.”

Alfred nodded, feverish. “Yes. Yes. I promise, god, fuck, _please_ , please, Arthur, I’m _gonna_ —“ He gasped again as Arthur took him in his mouth fully, teasing his nipple. The American gripped Arthur’s wrist like a lifeline, pulling him back to Earth. 

Arthur, always the professional, swallows Alfred’s release as he lets go, throwing his head back again and scrunching his eyes closed as he moans, a hot flush across his cheeks. He exhales, almost in disbelief, as he looks back at Arthur. Alfred is quiet before a smile spreads on his face. Arthur smiles back, though Alfred can see he’s hard as a rock as Arthur reaches for his own whiskey.

“Your turn?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp! it looks like i've christened ao3 with my first PWP! thanks for reading guys :-)

**Author's Note:**

> yall know america absolutely listens to brockhampton............
> 
> next chapter will be explicit i promise babes :-)


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